On The Way to a Smile: Case of Leonhart
by Zeff N Company
Summary: [PostAdvent Children] Everyone has a story to tell. Even the tired soldier trying to find his way home in the rain.
1. Dampened Spirits

Starting at the outskirts of Sector 3 and Sector 4, Edge's main road ran out straight to the east. The city formed along this main road and expanded out to the northwest.  
It was an impressive sight when seen from afar, so much so one could overlook the fact it had been put together with scrap excavated from the ruins of Midgar. Still, the odors of iron and rust in the air was something to get used to.

_Johnny's Heaven_ was a café along the main road - a humble establishment; just a couple of tables and chairs and a stall for making simple meals set in an empty lot. It's owner, Johnny, named it in honor of it's predecessor, _Seventh Heaven_ - a diner that once stood in Sector 7 of Midgar - in the hope his business might enjoy a similar success.

Several months after the original was destroyed in the fall of the Sector 7 plate, its hostess, Tifa Lockhart, had opened a new _Seventh Heaven_ in Edge. Back then, Johnny was lost amidst the swarms of people who couldn't decide what direction they should take with their lives, but he was moved by the inspiring way of life Tifa led. Once the object of his unrequited affections, Tifa soon became a role model, someone for him to look up to and learn from. He wanted to live his life like Tifa did hers, and was inspired to start a business of his own, to give hope to those who had lost their way.

That marked the beginnings of his project, _Johnny's Heaven_. The clientele often heard the tale of "Johnny's Rebirth" when they stopped in for a drink or two. Intrigued by his stories, his customers visited the new Seventh Heaven in hopes of catching a glimpse of the illustrious Tifa. Many soon became regulars. Before he knew it, Johnny spent most days in the empty café, waiting for someone to show up and listen to his tales of love and hope.

But not today.

Overhead, a heavy rain descended from the skies; it did not look like it planned on ceasing anytime soon.

That meant, too, that Johnny would have no customers for the day, not where all his tables and chairs and stall were exposed to such harsh elements.  
Definitely no business.

With barely any shelter from the makeshift cover he had set up over the main stall, Johnny hastily packed away the more perishable items in the safety of the storage. Then he uttered a string of cusses he recalled to be pejorative in nature as he found himself stuck with the thermos of still-hot coffee.  
_What do I do with this! Drink out of it while standing here and watching this confounded rain!_

He was still contemplating the best solution possible when a ragged figure hurried in his direction. Johnny managed to blink once before he found that same figure in the lot with him. The man nodded apologetically in Johnny's direction, then squatted under what little shelter was left to be offered.  
Right at the front of the main stall Johnny was trying to clear.

Johnny was incredulous, but was able to empathize; had it been him caught in a rain like this, he knew he would do anything to get hold of shelter until it passed.

Soaked to the bone and getting wetter with every passing second, the man did not appear to shiver too much, instead huddled into the bare amount of warmth his soggy, ill-fitting jacket could offer. The dark mane of hair that clung to his head, too, dripped with rainwater, streaking the ground with it. He looked scarcely different from a drowned rat, and made a sorry sight.

Johnny continued to stare over the top of his stall down at the huddled figure, and fidgeted uneasily before getting his act together.  
"Hey, there - don't sit there and soak like a sponge, you can come round here."

The man did not answer, hesitant and scrunched against the stall's front.

"Plenty of room, plus it's drier; come on in."

This time, the man got to his feet and ducked under the makeshift shelter with Johnny. He promptly squatted again, his gloved hands disappearing into his jacket once more. This time, a metallic glint and black leather could be seen peeking from the back where the collar was pulled back. It looked like a bladed weapon of sorts.

Johnny looked from his unexpected guest to the thermos he continued to hold. Finally, he pulled open the storage drawer and removed a disposable cup. Pouring out a good measure of coffee, he squatted as well and held it out to the man.

There was next to no hesitation this time as the man accepted the cup and drank from it greedily. As his hands clutched the disposable cup, the open front of his jacket became visible, revealing a partially damp white shirt and a dangling pendant. At the end of that pendant was what looked like a lion's head attached to a small cross. Strung together with it was a small silver band and a pair of dog tags.

_...a soldier...probably from the W.R.O., too. Why didn't I figure that out before?_

Just then, the man coughed as he choked slightly on the hot coffee. Before Johnny could say more for the occasion, the man nodded to him again, and resumed drinking from the cup as soon as his throat and chest had calmed down.

Finally, the man lowered the drained cup from his lips, heaving a long, deep sigh of relief. He looked tired, exhausted from traveling a great distance and experiencing many things.

Johnny's curiosity was spiked, but he reached for the cup. Taking it easily from the now slackened hands, he refilled the cup and handed it back.

The man stared at the cup, then took it carefully. He seemed more in control of himself, now, then he was earlier. Taking a more composed sip from the cup, he spoke at last.  
"...thank you."

"All part of the job," Johnny answered easily, his most winning grin upon his face. The man did not appear taken in by it, yet it was not as though Johnny could tell either way - the emotionless expression looked like more like a fixture upon that face, betraying no hint of amusement, anger, sorrow or even happiness. It was a monotonous neutral - Cloud had looked like that, once.

"I'm Johnny."

"Leonhart."

"What brings you all the way from the front?"

"Trying to get home."

"You live here in Edge?"

"No."

"So...where _do_ you live?"

"...wouldn't understand if I told you."

"A long story, then."

This time, yet another nod; the warm coffee had not helped loosen his tongue by much.

"So, tell me."

"...do I know you?" the man muttered sardonically. Johnny remained undaunted.

"I'm the guy with a good thermos of coffee, and a good pair of ears."

The man finally looked up, deep into Johnny's ears. Two dark orbs with their very own storm brewing behind them; eyes that were angry and bitter, yet so weary they no longer held the will to complain.

Then the man looked away and took another sip of coffee.  
"...works for me..."

* * *

The weather had been kind to them that day - it was neither a scorcher, nor was there any rain. There had not been rain for many days, now.

The search team found yet another house with someone dead. Through the entire line of houses they had checked, there was always at least one death.  
This time, at least they recovered a survivor - an eight- - perhaps nine- - year-old boy.  
Chief stayed a little longer to help the boy bury the old lady in her backyard. Leonhart and the others were roped in to help, and each had contributed at least one shovelful of soil.

"...must've been wanting to grow something; surprising we didn't hit the plate, how deep in we dug," someone commented beside him. But that was all that could be said for her sake; none of them had ever known her, save the boy - they did not know what her favorite food or color or animal was, what made her laugh and what made her cry, how she liked her steaks done, or if she was a vegetarian.  
All they knew about her, was that she was called "Mrs. Levy".

As they moved to go, Chief invited the boy to hitch a ride on the truck down to the station. The boy accepted, and climbed into the back, into a seat right next to him. Leonhart did not make any effort to speak with the boy, his eyes busy scanning the landscape as they drove on.  
It did not take long before they reached the station...if it could still be called one.

"The train's not running," Chief commented, "and there's no chance of it getting repaired. Good thing the tracks still lead down to the ground; if we walk, we can reach the Slums in good time."

"Is Midgar safe?" Leonhart asked.

"That, my friend, I don't know. But for now, it's probably safer on the surface, don't you think?" Chief left the question unanswered, then turned to the boy.  
"Don't slip. No one's got any time to spare to help; you'll just have to look out for yourself."

The boy slid easily from his seat, then alighted. As the truck made a U-turn and drove away, Leonhart watched the boy disappear into the crowd of straggling survivors.

Then Chief interrupted his thoughts as he addressed the whole team.

"Keep an eye out for a decent parking space; at the rate this is going, we'll be taking our shovels back down there as well."

* * *

The man tilted his head back, once again emptying the cup. Looking up at Johnny, he held it out with a silent request.  
Johnny obliged him, once again straightening to refill it from the thermos.

"Don't take too many of these, or you won't be able to sleep tonight," he casually mentioned on the side.  
The man did not comment.

Handing the cup back once again, Johnny settled himself into a more comfortable position. "Please continue."

"...bored out here?"

"Not with a good story going."

The man snorted before going back to the coffee, but Johnny pressed on.

"So, did you go back to the station?"

* * *

They had to.  
Completing their expedition through the line of wrecked homes, they had found almost everyone else dead. Most were bleeding black blood from various parts of their body.  
They spent the better part of the next three to six hours with more burials; there had not been as much soil as in the old lady's backyard, but they had managed to lay each one into the ground.  
Then Chief directed the driver back toward the station. A parking space had been found, and then the rest of the journey was by foot.

Chief had been right - already, many were dead and covered in black blood. Some of the survivors were willing to help, but others feared infection and refused to touch anything. Most of the graveyards were dug by the search team members themselves.

Chief and Leonhart were still covering bodies when Chief spotted the boy from earlier, grabbing at some of the salvaged luggage. Chief watched the boy for a moment, then stabbed the shovel into the ground and headed toward him.  
Without a word, Leonhart's eyes followed Chief. Chief stopped before the boy, and said something to him. The boy now held open a bag with Chocobo print, and Chief reached inside to pick out a cookie. The boy helped himself to another cookie as Chief ruffled his hair in a rough, friendly manner.

Then Leonhart stopped looking and went back to filling the temporary grave of a young girl.

* * *

"...truth was, I never disliked that boy, or any of the children who came later. But I just never tried warming up to them."

"Fear of parental responsibility?" Johnny suggested.

"It was shame.  
"Watching those children often reminded me of the fact that I had none; no heir to my family's line, not even someone I could truly call my own. It's a pathetic existence, living to know that your name would someday simply vanish away into the shadows of unwritten history...knowing that your family's own history would fade from existence forever."

"It just wasn't your time then, was it?"

Johnny pointedly motioned to the silver band that hung on the chain of the man's pendant. Now, with it in clearer view, he could make out an engraved design...also a lion.

The man looked down as well at the ring, and his eyes appeared to soften slightly as he gazed upon it.

"...indeed, it was not..."

* * *

In the year that passed, the search team started to grow in size as more and more survivors regrouped at the station - it was the only intact area that anyone could attempt living in anymore.  
The children proved more of a help - they were keen and hardworking, always trying to make themselves useful; earn their keep. The newer adults were a bunch of idiots, as Chief called them - headless frogs who were utterly clueless, yet unable to keep still for very long.

In the beginning, the group spent their time burying the dead. It was a work that they had become used to, and the salvaged foodstuffs fed them all; not even the youngest child went hungry. However, in the following two weeks after, the number of people evacuating Midgar had decreased, and the people recuperating at the station left, too. It was no question that the search team's work was coming to an end.

Then one day, Leonhart noticed a stranger approaching the children and talking to them. Moments later, the children started digging through Sector 7 for a number of iron pipes that had been left behind like scrap. These, they presented to the stranger, who said his thanks and left.  
That stranger returned several times, bringing some company with him on his third visit. Some of the strangers approached the adults of the search team as well; they said they were starting construction on a new city on the east side of Midgar, and were in need of all the help they could get. Some of the adults agreed to lend their services in the city, and were given wages. In return for delivering the items asked for, the children received food.  
It was yet another opportunity to survive, and some of the team brought up the matter to Chief.

Somewhere along the line, the children had named the search team as the "Sector 7 Expedition"; it fit well enough, and the adults soon picked it up as well. They were constantly busy with job requests, and prided themselves with the knowledge that they could, once again, earn a decent living.  
There were nights when Leonhart heard some of the children cry for their parents, but the other youngsters were always there to cheer them up afterward. As they would say to one another, they were "sharing a common fate", now.

One morning, Chief called together the children and adults of the Sector 7 Expedition, and suggested that they all move and help with the construction of the new city. Most of them, who were already traveling back and forth to work there, agreed easily. The others, too, voiced their approval toward this suggestion. But then, a handful of them noticed that Chief looked as though he were in some pain, and rubbed his chest constantly as he was speaking.

"Mr. Gaskin, are you feeling okay?" one of the children asked Chief.

"... Not quite."  
Chief unbuttoned his coat and carefully pulled the front back.

His shirt was soaked through with black blood.

* * *

"...Chief died a month later; kicked off in the night, while he slept.

"There was this special spot in Sector 7 that was right behind our living quarters, just big enough. We buried Chief there - all the men helped dig the hole, and every one of the search team contributed at least one handful of soil to cover him. The children took Chief's passing the hardest.  
"Chief had always been a strong one; strong on the outside, strong on the inside. Had he not been infected, he would have outlived us all."

"He was a good man," Johnny said softly, respectful. "His life was not wasted."

The man did not comment to the statement, but he did not reject it either. Instead, he continued his tale.

"With Chief in the ground, the adults started to drift away. There was no one to lead the team, and no one wanted to bother; it was a responsibility that we all felt belonged to Chief - _only_ Chief. No one wanted to take that from him. Some left for the new city, going under full employment as workers in the construction. Some just wandered off to get away from the rest of humanity - figured that isolation would prevent infection, for some stupid reason."

"And you?"

"Joined the W.R.O. Fighting was what I grew up with, and the only thing I had left."

Johnny nodded his understanding, silently congratulating himself for his right assumption.

"The last thing I recall about that place was watching the children see us off, one by one. None of those children left the station; they wanted to stay with Chief, I guess, hold onto his memory. I wonder what's become of them now..."

The two men were cut off momentarily by a loud crash of thunder that echoed through the city. The rain was coming down harder, now.

"...well, no use in staying here," Johnny said, getting to his feet and putting the thermos away - to heck with the coffee; he'd clean up when he came back.  
"Come on; I know some friends who own a diner."

The man paused, uncertain and surprised at the same time. "...you do not have to do this."

"I can't just leave you out here!" Johnny protested.

"I'm just a passing customer."

"You're a passing customer with a lot to get off his chest!" Johnny countered quickly, before his sudden rush of adrenaline backed out on him. "I'm not walking out on you until I hear the rest of that story!"

The man blinked twice, then shook his head in wonder. "...you really are bored."

"So are you coming, or what?"

The man's answer was to straighten and pull his jacket back into place. Nodding to Johnny, he moved to follow him.

Soon, the two men were running through the rain, slipping occasionally but otherwise not breaking stride.

One followed, the other lead the way and they disappeared into the thick curtain of rain.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	2. Wine and Sympathy

_Seventh Heaven_ - the diner that had once had fame in Sector 7, Midgar. Ever since its comeback, the place had been full of people, some of whom had come after hearing all about that little place from Johnny in _Johnny's Heaven_. It came to no surprise that the new diner was going to do as well as the old.

Today, however, was without a single customer of any kind; the moment the weather started to change, many of them hastened to return home before it got any worse - ever since that first time it rained since the long period of clear skies, every time there was rain, now, there would be a storm soon after.

Tifa had just sent Marlene and Denzel in not too long ago and was about to close shop for the night when two wet, dripping figures burst in. One was a stranger - perhaps a soldier, the way he was attired. The other was a familiar face.

"Johnny!"

"Ah...hello again, Tifa!"

"Have you lost your _mind_? What were you _thinking_, running through a storm like that?"

The strange soldier silently watched as Johnny stammered out a string of apologies. Tifa was unsure if she had ever seen him before, but let it pass; one drowned rat looked hardly different from another.  
That was when Johnny finished with his apologies and started his introductions.

"Tifa, allow me to introduce Mr. Leonhart - my only customer for today, despite all that rain."

"...and then you bring him here?"

"Well...you know...the rain and all..." Johnny trailed off, playing with his thumbs. Tifa knew immediately what it was going on, but couldn't bring herself to throw them out again in such weather.  
Even if it _was_ closing time.

"Fine, you and your friend can stay here until the weather clears," Tifa conceded, replacing her keys in her pocket and retreating to the counter. Thankful and relieved, Johnny hurriedly ushered the soldier to the bar stools by that same counter.

"Since you're here, you want a drink?"

"The house special," Johnny replied quickly, then hastily turning to the soldier. "You should try it, it's great. We can split the cost on it, too, if you're interested."

The soldier was quiet, but finally nodded.

"Alright, one Corel Alcohol coming right up. Stay there, please."

As Tifa disappeared into a different room, Johnny waited almost impatiently for the soldier to shed off his wet jacket, the now clearly visible weapon - some sort of revolver-blade cross - set to lean against another stool.

"So, then what happened?"

"...?"

"You know, after you left the station to join the W.R.O. What happened?"

The soldier stared blankly at Johnny, slowly shaking his head in amazement. "You've got to be kidding me..."

"So humor me."

"..."

* * *

Under the command of the World Restoration Order, Leonhart had a new role. His shovel was now replaced by either a gun or a sword - mostly a gun, and his duty no longer lay in burying dead, but in preserving lives - defending the civilians.

As he was tasked with guarding the parameters, he continued to watch people die around him. Most of them were bleeding pitch black. Most of them were children. As he watched other civilians either find the kindness to bury the bodies, or become fearful and leave them untouched, he remembered a time when he and Chief would stand opposite one another, digging holes and covering bodies.  
All he did now, was turn around and walk away.

Slowly, signs of dissent started to stir among those who were bleeding black but not anywhere near dead yet. Their cries for aid changed to ugly accusation, blaming the soldiers for only looking out for themselves and no longer concerned with civilian welfare. Some who were strong enough managed to cause some few, short-lived riots or staged protests - no matter how short, they hindered the work of the World Restoration Order greatly.  
Soon, permission was granted to the soldiers to fight back - with their weapons.

Despite being among them, Leonhart found it disgusting - an outrage to use his gun to shoot desperate people who were like cornered beasts, too scared and frantic to understand the truth. Yet, he found himself forced to pull the trigger countless times on these same people - the issued swords and blades' quality had downgraded in favor of the firearms, and were either too brittle or too soft to be of much use apart from picking dirt off the bottom of boots.

After one and a half weeks of what should have been rightfully termed "pointless slaughter", luck finally decided to pick his side.  
After another futile attempt to get the local weapons dealer to tamper with his military blade - anything to strengthen it - he spotted an old beat up blade in the corner of rejects behind the counter.

"...what's that?"

"Oh, that? That's a gunblade, of course! Never seen a gunblade before?"

Leonhart shook his head dumbly. The weapons dealer scratched at a balding spot on his head before reaching for that same blade. He hefted it up, slapped its weight carefully against his palm, then placed it on the counter.  
"Guess it's no surprise - hardly anyone uses these things anymore; kinda tricky, takes a lot out of people. You good with blade-fighting, son?"

Leonhart slowly nodded, his eyes moving quickly between the weapons dealer and the old blade.

"Then you could try this out for size. A few refinements, some sharpening, maybe a new finish, and it'll work like a charm - not to mention get damn handsome, too. What do you say, son? Wanna give it a chance? I'll give you a good price."

Leonhart finally lifted his hand from his side to run it across the old, rust-covered blade. It was large, but not as large as the comically gigantic blades he had come across. Just a right size, when he thought about it. Where the hilt should have been, instead was embedded what looked like the barrel of a regular army-issued revolver, ending with the pistol's handle and trigger.

"...how low can you go?"

In the weeks after, Leonhart started to work away from the military issued weapons, and moved on with the gunblade. The weapons dealer had been right about one thing - it took a lot of him. By the end of each day, he was spent. Still, he continued to fight with the gunblade. He changed his stance several times, and returned to have the blade cleaned and sharpened equally as often. As time slowly crawled on by, he started to get the hang of it - perhaps that explained how those guys could wield those same comically gigantic blades like they did; practice made perfect, indeed.

On the day he finally adjusted completely to his new weapon, he commemorated the moment by tagging his family's totem onto the revolver handle - the Griever.

* * *

The soldier reached toward the weapon he had set down, cupping the tagged lion in one gloved hand.

"The Griever - the body of a man, but the heart of a lion; his totem has existed in my family for a long time. I once heard a story from a...relative, that the Leonhart were descended from one man - a Dark Knight - and the Griever was his symbol. Thus, the Leonhart, his descendants, continue to bear his symbol, perhaps to receive the Dark Knight's favor, and also his blessing."

"Ah, that explains all those lions," Johnny commented dryly.

The soldier unconsciously flicked his eyes once over himself - the lion head pendent around his neck, the lion on the arm of his jacket - and back at the tag he was still cupping. He let it drop back down and swing as he slumped over his seat in a resigned manner, not exactly answering Johnny's question.

"Here you go, one round of Corel Alcohol."

Both men looked up as Tifa returned with a bottle and two empty glasses. Setting the three items before them, she took back her tray and retreated within once more.  
"Clean up after yourselves."

"We will."

Johnny reached over and took the bottle, pouring out an even portion of alcohol into each glass before setting the bottle down once more. Looking back at the soldier, he urged him. "Go on, try it."

The soldier reached for the glass and took hold of it, studying the contents as he brought it close. Finally, he tilted his head back, his throat working as half the glassful of liquid went down. Lowering the glass again, he licked his lips thoughtfully before giving his verdict.  
"...it's good."

Johnny nodded his agreement, but did not stay on that topic too long.  
"So, what happened next?"

The soldier tilted his head back and finished the rest of his glassful. As he lowered his glass, Johnny instinctively poured him another glass. Looking briefly at Johnny, the soldier nodded his thanks.

* * *

Day by day, more and more people became infected. Although the death count hardly rose, there soon came a point where nearly half the population was bleeding pitch black.  
Not even the soldiers were spared - just as suddenly as it had snuck up on everyone else, it snuck up on them and took them, no matter if they were flat on their backs or had their boots on. Some joined the list of deaths, and some never got up again - lying there on their backs and simply wasting away.

Leonhart had watched his team fall apart; every other day, another member would collapse. Some, he would visit; others, he would never see again. As he stood there and stared down at the bodies either heavily bandaged or soaked with black blood, he wondered why he was not the one to lie there in pain. Was it as they had said; was the Griever truly protecting his own?  
He loathed this protection as much as he cherished it. What should have been a blessing, he could not help but regard as a curse - a sentence to live through life like a worm, until the day he finally had an heir for Griever to be passed on to. A cursed, yet blessed heirloom.  
As time continued to crawl pass, he finally stopped visiting altogether.

He was soon transferred to a new squad, comprised of all the remaining survivors of other teams. Some had kids of their own, some had wives, some had girlfriends, some were still single; like him, all were still healthy and strong.  
On the night of their official formation as a new team, some suggested they head down to the local saloon to "bond". A majority vote went in their favor, and they were soon seated around a table with bottles of cheap alcohol, watching the acts going on. Leonhart sat with them, but wished no part in their lewd comments about the performers; he did not even wish to look up at them as he chugged mug after mug into his system.  
He felt too tired to try anymore.

He could not recall how many rounds he had downed, but he remembered the world around him started to give a more fuzzy appeal to him. He could still walk, he remembered that - he remembered leaving his comrades to pass out in the saloon as he left to go somewhere.  
He remembered a quiet place of retreat from many years ago, a place he had once been brought to as a boy. He remembered meeting a girl there - she had a face, words, hopes and dreams - he remembered her mentioning a boyfriend, but he could not summon any names to his recollection.  
But he remembered, well, that she had told him he could always come back and see her, whenever he needed a friend to talk to.

He needed a friend. A friend who he could talk to. A friend who was not doomed to drop dead in battle.

He _wanted_ a friend more than ever before.

Then he came to the front steps - old, run-down as ever, and the rugged doorway. He stepped inside, and saw the flowers again - they were still blooming, still a fond sight despite the brokenness of the building that housed them.  
And there was still the girl there.

He approached, almost desperately, his hand moving as he tried to reach out.

_You're still here...?_

Then she turned around, and something snapped within him.

This girl was different, not the one he remembered. Her hair was still long, but it was a darker shade of brown and did not flow down her back - it stopped at her shoulders. And she wasn't much as tall, she was rather smallish.

It wasn't her.

"I'm sorry, am I intruding on anything?"

The hesitant, timid voice registered finally in his foggy mind, and Leonhart tried to say something - that took a little more effort.

"...where is she?"

The girl frowned slightly in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"...she said she'd be here..."

"...Aerith? Do you mean Miss Gainsborough?"

He squinted as he tried to recall the name. Then the girl started to prompt him further.

"Long light brown hair? Pink dress? Red jacket? Pink bow in her hair?"

Then it registered, and he managed to nod hurriedly.

"Yes...yes...that's her..."

The girl's expression suddenly appeared dimmer, even to his slightly blurred perception of things.

"She left a long time ago, and she's never come back since. I...I've been taking care of the flowers for her, but there's been no sign of her ever returning."

He swore his chest seized up for a moment there as he suddenly couldn't breathe.  
This wasn't right. She had promised him. She said she would be here, anytime he needed someone to talk to...anytime he needed a friend to just listen to him ramble away at nothing...even in a drunken phase, like now...she said she would be right here for him.

...she..._lied_...?

_...even...you?  
Lost...everything's lost...?_

The girl gasped audibly enough as he fell into a messy sitting position, shaking as he shivered hard with suppressed emotions.

She had her own life, she was not obligated to be here for anyone. She _did_ mention, somewhere, that there were people after her, and she did mention she had her boyfriend. Maybe she left with him to have a better life. Maybe she was living happily somewhere.  
He should be feeling happy for her, shouldn't he?

"...sir, are you alright?"

He was supposed to be happy for her, right?

...was he sobbing now?

Must be all that alcohol, then.

Then something was held out to him. It was blurred at first, but he finally recognized it as a small lacy handkerchief. In the hand of the girl he had just been...talking...to.

"...um...here, blow."

_...what?_

Something just seemed so strange to him in that simple phrase, perhaps because his mind was so disorientated from the booze and torrent of emotions.

He didn't know why, and he figured it was not really fair to confuse and scare the poor girl as he did, but it happened.

He started to laugh out loud.  
The tears were still streaming down his face, but he was laughing.

Laughing and crying...crying and laughing.

Right there, with just a confused, worried and slightly frightened girl as an unexpected witness, he lost control of himself entirely.

* * *

After that night, Leonhart found out she was actually one of the dancing girls performing in the saloon; she had finished early and come there, that was all.

He continued to spend his leisure time at the saloon, just to watch her perform. Sometimes, he would manage to talk to her again. Sometimes, he only watched. There was once, perhaps, she sang, but he never heard her sing again for a long time.

Despite the initial difficulty, the two of them soon started to meet more regularly. Both were as patient with one another as they could manage; Leonhart gave her his respect and friendship, and the girl put up with him when he unconsciously lost himself now and then.  
The day they finally met halfway, he confessed.

* * *

Johnny, just lifting his own glass of to his lips, yanked the glass back down as he sprayed alcohol across the counter in what had to be an overly dramatic spit take. Hardly impressed, the soldier did not respond other than to duck slightly back, out of the way.

Coughing hard, Johnny finally blurted out what had caused his shock - "You fell in love with a _dancing girl_?"

"Yes; why?"

Johnny caught the look in the soldier's eye, realized that the latter did not really see his point, and coughed one last time. "Sorry, do go on."

* * *

Eventually, the girl resigned from her job with the saloon. Leonhart, too, received a successful transfer to the W.R.O.'s Selected Reserve. The two gathered what possessions they had, and departed from Edge. It took some traveling before they came upon a small, isolated village among the hills, not too far from Edge itself, so occasional supply shopping was still possible, as well as checking up on old friends in the town.  
Thus, they settled there.

It soon came to no surprise that they were the only two there who were not infected by the black blood; all the villagers there had come from different places, to this peaceful little place - to die in peace.

By then, the public had been enlightened to the fact that this strange plague - they called it "Geostigma" - was not contagious in any way. Though, there were still no solid explanations as to how one got infected in the first place.

Leonhart only knew he could not take any chances. The villagers were kind, good people, despite their suffering. Yet, he did not wish the girl to share their plight, ever.  
A week after they settled, he went back to Edge. After reacquainting himself with the merchants, he managed to convince one to help him make two special items, both bearing Griever's totem. The moment he made it back home, he passed on his pendant to her. He made her promise to always hold onto it, that is, until he asked for it back. If Griever truly watched over those who bore his totem, then let Griever watch over the girl.

As the couple settled down in the village, Leonhart started to earn his keep among them; although the place was in the hills, and was usually peaceful, it still fell victim to the occasional monster pack that came by. Leonhart was in his element, fighting them off with his gunblade whenever they approached. The villagers he protected never did get close to him, but he was fitting the role of "neighbor" better with each passing day.

One day, just as luck picked his side so long ago, luck left him, suddenly and ferociously.

There had been nothing different about that day - he only recalled awakening to a strange feeling of lethargy. There had been a more aggressive pack of monsters upon the village that day, and what few fighting buddies he had were under the weather and weakened. It had been a hard battle, and he felt like he had been fighting for an eternity as he hacked through the pack.

Then the fight was over, and he nearly dropped his blade as a sudden new feeling of exhaustion and weakness seized his entire body. The world suddenly looked a little less focused, and he could hardly move from his half-crouched position.  
A sudden pain stabbed him hard in the lower back, lancing up to his shoulders as his legs went numb. As he hit the ground, his mind started to spin. He could barely even call out, getting nowhere past pained moans. With some difficulty, he managed to reach and touch his lower back. There was something sticky there.  
He pulled his hand out in front of him again, causing him to fall onto his side. Groaning, dreading what he would find, he finally forced himself to look at his hand, at the substance that was now soaking his back.

The glove was stained pitch black.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	3. Blade of Dignity

Leonhart did not know how long he had been lying there on the ground, unable to move or even think clearly - it was as though a suffocating fog had buried him, rendering him senseless to the world.  
Through that fog, he thought he could hear her. She sounded so reassuring, so comforting, yet so afraid at the same time. He felt his strength fading quickly, and her voice became more panicked as she cried out over and over. Yet, he could barely hear her anymore.  
He tried to clench his fist over the handle of his gunblade, but he was no longer sure if he was even holding the weapon. All he could do through his thick, confused whirl of thoughts, was plead. Plead with the Griever; plead with Hyne, plead with anyone who could possibly hear him.

_Don't take me now. Not yet. Don't let me die yet._

* * *

The soldier carefully swirled the alcohol in his glass, studying it in a distracted manner as he continued to tell his tale.

"I remember being bed-ridden for weeks. I couldn't take care of myself, I couldn't walk, I couldn't even move a toe. All I could do was lie there, sick or just too weak to do a thing about myself. She got really worried and upset about it - tried to give me back my pendant at one point. I wouldn't let her - even if if I was crippled, I didn't want her to end up like me... I still wanted to protect her.  
"But my condition never showed any improvement, and I convinced her to have my military issued gun mail-ordered over for herself; I couldn't get up to defend her, and she was already having it hard enough trying to take care of me. I couldn't sit and wait for the worst case scenario...couldn't let anything happen to her."

* * *

He remembered waking to the distant sound of the door knocking. Then the sound of the doorknob turning, the latch going up, the door swinging open.

_**"Your gun, madam."**_

_**"Thank you so much! Please, come in; I'll go get your pay."**_

Finally, when everything was a little less blurred and fuzzy, when he figured he was focusing a little better, Leonhart lifted his hand carefully to shield his eyes. He coughed a couple of times, pain shooting through his back each time. He tried to reach for the cloth on the table, but his fingers merely brushed by it before it fell to the floor. He groaned, muttering curses for no one's ears but his own, and moved to drag himself to the side of the bed and try reaching for it again.

Then a gloved hand took hold of the cloth and placed it in his hand gently. His vision swayed a little as he looked up. Then things returned to a compromised focus, and he could just make out blond hair and black clothes. A little more, and he could make out what was once SOLDIER battle attire and black sleeves. Closing his hand over the cloth, he drew it back and laid it over his forehead, sighing with relief as it shaded the light from his eyes.

The man didn't say anything to him as Leonhart looked out from under the cloth in his direction.

Leonhart looked down at the sleeve over the man's arm.  
"...got it too, eh?"

The man blinked, then looked at his sleeved arm as well; he continued to say nothing.

Lifting his own hand away from the cloth, Leonhart pointed out the opened med kit on the table, and the rolls of medicated bandages there.  
"Help yourself."

The man did not move from his spot, his eyes still fixed on him.

"...hurts a lot, I know... Supposed to help a little, those..." Leonhart managed a shrug as he continued. "Doesn't work with me that well...always hurting, anyway..."

Finally, the man accepted the invitation, slowly reaching forward and taking one of the rolls. The man looked back at him and nodded his thanks.

Nodding back, Leonhart sighed and dropped his hand down to the bed. Exhaling deeply, he relaxed and drifted back into the dark, black world of nothingness as he fell asleep again.

* * *

"I don't know how long it took - between fevers and spells - to finally get my feet moving again. I still could barely feel them, but I could at least get up and take a few steps without crawling around. The walking part was harder - took so long for me to learn walking all over again, by the time I could even get out of the house on my own, I would have fully grown out my facial hair if she let me.

"It was around then that they came."

"...they?"

The soldier stopped playing with his glass and tilted his head back. As the contents disappeared down his throat, he lowered the glass to the counter and looked into Johnny's eyes.

"...you heard of the Shadow Creepers?"

* * *

There were screams everywhere. Blood and sickness was heavy in the air, despite the obvious scents of gunpowder and other elements.

A large, demonic looking creature rooted messily through a living room, the owner having fled in time. Barely.

Throughout the village, the usual peace was shattered. More of the creatures either attacked the people, or crashed through the houses, as though looking for something. Though, what it was, they never found it. And that only fueled their brutality and crazed zest to continue the search.

Leonhart leaned heavily against the outer wall of his home, struggling to catch his breath. His gunblade weighed a ton in his grip, but was still clean and untouched by any blood since he had dragged it out of the house earlier.

One of the monsters was approaching his home, sniffing around and growling. It would sense him, soon, as well as the girl in the house. He had to take his chance while he could; anything to get an advantage over the beast.  
An advantage which he could not choose to go without.

As the creature took another step closer, he gritted his teeth and shoved himself off the wall. He managed to turn around and throw himself at the monster, sending both tumbling to the ground. Barely given time to recover, he found himself sprawled on his back, the creature towering over him as its breath hit his face.

This was it. He was going to be slaughtered and eaten right there; right on his own front porch.

Then the door burst open, and he heard gunshots. He could somewhat see the girl there, in the doorway, his army-issued gun in her hand, as she gripped it tightly. It looked so much like a toy compared to the creature it was up against; if only they could have afforded something more efficient.

The monster bared its teeth in what looked like a leer. Disregarding his fallen form, the beast stepped over him and toward the girl.

_No._

_Not her._

He did not know where he had mustered up the strength or will, but he lifted his blade and stabbed it forcefully upward, into the creature's belly that was still over his head. The creature dissolved away into the shadows, reappearing a distance away from him, hissing. Leonhart fell forward, coughing and gasping for breath before dragging the blade and his tired body up to fight.

What happened next, Leonhart was not entirely sure; he only recalled seeing through some kind of red haze that obscured too many details. He had continued to hack and slice, the creature continuously vanishing into shadows and reappearing elsewhere. It was wearing him out, and they both knew it.

Before he knew it, he was once again sprawled on his back, the pain and exhaustion back with a vengeance. He could hear gunshots around him, as villagers continued to fight back. He could hear angry shouts and pained yowls, but he suddenly did not know how he felt about it. In his hand, the gunblade continued to glisten in the light that hit it. Said monster was no longer attacking, but slowly moving around him.

Sluggishly, he lifted his blade over his head, his other hand moving to keep it there. He stared at the beast, the beast staring back at him. Then the beast moved to ignore him again as it moved toward his home.

_NO, damn you!_

Forcing himself up into a sitting position, he brought the blunt end of the blade down neatly upon the creature's neck, earning a satisfying cracking sound. The creature howled as it disappeared into the shadows again.

Then it stopped attacking.

So did all the other creatures as they suddenly melted away and no longer reappeared.

_**"...Mother is not here."**_

Leonhart swore he caught sight of silver hair from the corner of his eye.

By the time he turned to look behind him, there was no one there.

* * *

"...I don't know exactly what was going on afterward, but the Shadow Creepers no longer came back; like whatever had set them upon the village had recalled them for some other job or whatever. We were all thankful for their hasty exit, but what came next, none of us could have predicted.

"It started to rain.  
"A long, seemingly endless shower fell upon us, while we were still busy cleaning up after the attack. None of us knew for sure how it happened, but the rain...healed us. Took away our sickness.  
"It was like something of power from the skies above had saved us all."

* * *

At first no one comprehended what the rain meant; it had just been so very long since there was rainfall. Most just stood there and stared at the sky in confusion.

It had started with a shout from one of the working men; he started waving madly and charging out into the open. He kept pointing at his hands, ripping away the bandages placed there. At first, they still saw the black blood wound; suddenly, engulfed in cool green energy, it faded away, and the skin was smooth and clean once more.

"THE RAIN! IT'S THE RAIN!"

Then everyone got excited at once, charging out from under the shelters to be bathed in the falling droplets of water, crying out with joy - some even to the point of weeping - as their sickness faded as though it were never there.

Leonhart, drenched through with rain, suddenly felt something different about himself. He looked down and slightly behind, at the black-stained shirt. Pulling it over his head and off, he looked down at the bandaged torso.  
It no longer hurt.  
Ripping the bandages away with half-frenzied eagerness, he watched as a glow of green bathed the infected area.  
In a flash, the black blood wound was gone.

He took an experimental step forward, and nearly stumbled as he realized how effortless it had become. Then he started to walk, picking up speed until he was breaking into a full run toward his house. With a leap, he jumped clear over the front steps to his front door and threw it open.

The girl had stared at him in bewilderment, at first, then moved hastily to him to reprimand him for tearing around the village without his shirt.  
Then she stopped as he turned around, and she saw his clean torso, the wound gone from it.

Panting slightly out of breath, he turned back to face her once more, holding his hands out before him without really knowing what to do with them. His eyes were bright with ecstasy, and a smile forced its way upon his face.

That was when the girl shrieked and jumped upon him, hugging him tight to her as she started to cry. It hurt a little, the way she was constricting his breathing some, but it was a pain he welcomed.  
It was a pain that told him, definitely, that he was not dreaming.

He was well again.

* * *

As the village was rebuilt, Leonhart made another trip down to Edge. He found the city, too, to be in the midst of repairs. Gathering information from the townsfolk, he found out about what had happened just so recently; about more of the Shadow Creepers, the three men with silver hair, the great Dragon Bahamut himself. All of these strange figures had disappeared without a trace.

He made a stop down by the merchant's place - surprisingly still intact and open for business - and requested for his two special items. The merchant was only too glad to relinquish them, wishing him luck as an added bonus.

Then it was trip back to the village, where he picked up the girl. Together, they headed all the way back to what was left of Midgar. Although the place was in so much ruin, there was one building that still stood tall - ironically, it was the old broken church. Both remembered it well, and Leonhart felt it the right place to bring the girl to.

He led her in - it was empty now, the crowd probably dispersed for the night, already - and brought her to the small pool of cleansing water in the center. The flowers that had once blossomed there - beautiful and strong - were now remembered only by the petals that floated over the surface. Leonhart stepped into the water - it was a little lower than waist deep for him, and held out his hand to help the girl in. Then, taking her hand securely in his own, he led her to the center of the pool.  
As they stood there, facing each other, he spoke to her.

"It is time I took back that pendant."

She looked back at him, the confusion evident on her face. He gathered his courage together, and reached deep into his jacket's hidden pocket; the hand came back out in a closed fist.

"It is time to return the pendant, and replace it with something more...permanent."

He opened his palm, and presented to her the two special items that rested there - two silver-colored rings, the Griever's totem engraved upon them.

Carefully, he selected the smaller ring and held it out to her, carefully explaining.  
"The lion...the Griever...protects those who bear the name of Leonhart. He watches closely all of the clan, the new additions and the offspring. His strength is our strength, his might is our shield, and his protection is our life...we honor him in turn, and carry his symbol with us always.  
"I want to protect you with my life... ...I...I wish... I want the honor of giving you my clan's name."

His confidence started to waver in her silence, and he managed out a hesitant, "may I?".

* * *

"...she became my wife that day, there in the old church. We didn't get ourselves a priest, or even a witness. There, quietly, just the two of us; I gave her the clan's name of Leonhart. We returned to the village, and continued to live together, as we always had.  
"Then she was pregnant, and made me swear to her that I would name our firstborn child after the miracle that enabled us to come this far together. And when the child was born, I kept my word to her."

The soldier looked back toward the window, to outside. The night had sneaked past them, and it was already sunrise. And the rain had finally stopped.

Rising to his feet, the soldier pulled out a handful of coins and laid them neatly on the counter top. Then, taking his weapon, he headed out.

Johnny was about to get out his money as well when he caught sight of the small pile of coins.  
"...hey, wait! We're going halves, remember?"

The soldier paused in the doorway and turned back. He still did not smile, but his eyes were less hard; the closest thing to friendship could be seen.

"A man has to repay his debts."

Johnny did not protest further as he understood what the other meant by those words.

Staring one last time in Johnny's direction, the soldier turned and stepped out of the diner. Denzel was just emerging from within when the two sets of eyes met. The soldier nodded once at the boy, and walked off. Denzel watched him go with an unreadable expression on his face, then moved toward the counter. As he saw Johnny there, he didn't say a thing.  
Feeling a little embarrassed, Johnny grabbed a rag and hastily started to clean up the mess he had caused earlier with his spit take.

"Was that a friend of yours?"

Johnny looked up over his furious mopping. "Who?"

"The one who just walked out," Denzel explained, looking out through the window at where the soldier just disappeared in the distance.

"Oh... Yep; we were chatting over a bottle."

Denzel did not answer immediately to that, but continued to stare out the window, at where the soldier was last seen.

"...I think I've seen that man somewhere before..."

* * *

"Here she is; a strong, healthy little girl."

He stared dumbly - still in shock - at the small wet bundle that their neighbor proceeded to help wash. Then, before he could completely snap out of it, the same bundle was placed in his arms, now clean and swaddled in a towel.

"...she's beautiful," he finally spoke.

As his wife stirred, he got his act back together, just enough to bring the bundle to her side. He held the bundle carefully out to her, and she relieved him of the temporary job he had been given.

The child's eyes opened, and looked from one face to the other. His wife smiled lovingly down at the child as she held her close.

He fumbled with his gloves, pulling them off to set on the table. Then, he carefully reached over and stroked a tiny wrist.

"...your name is of the healing rain - of the miracle...and you're my firstborn child..."

A small smile graced his features as he felt the tiny fingers curiously touch his much larger ones.

"...you are Raine Leonhart."

* * *

_**... End.**_


End file.
